Some enchanted evening, that was the song she played.
The wedding reception took place in the living room every afternoon that summer. My sister and I would hold each other tightly, swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the music. Grandmother sat in the rocker and sang along. Every other moment of the day Beth and I spent fighting. Beth is eighteen months older than me and it was our job to not get along. That was just the way we were. But when we placed Grandmother’s half slip on our head and pulled the 1960’s plastic orange ring that once belonged to my mother from the wooden box hidden in the drawer of my grandmother’s dresser; we were allowed to love each other. Pretending made it safe to be close to her, to touch her, to hug her. To love her. When the song was over, we always went back to fighting.